You’re supposed to mix this with Southern Comfort whiskey, pour a glass and garnish it with cinnamon sticks. I prefer to drink it from the carton as is with graham crackers or shortbread cookies. The texture is smooth and creamy. The flavor is delicious.

I want to eat Jessica Parker Kennedy. I don’t just mean that as a metaphor for chewing pussy. I mean I want to eat her face like a cannibal. It looks like someone already got to her nose, but it’s slightly odd shape only adds to her prettiness.

If she’s not perfectly pretty, she’s about as close as I’ve ever seen. That’s thanks in part to her creamy skin color, which is indeed perfect in my eyes. It seems rare to catch her without make up; the one true beauty test; but she’s also cute without it.

I like You Are Not Alone, but I wish R Kelly had also given this song to Michael Jackson. It would, with a few lyrical alterations, be the perfect way to end or even begin his next album. The woes R Kelly expresses, having to do with being metaphorically crucified by a world of “haters”, fits M Jackson a lot more than it does R Kelly.

I can’t blame him for keeping it for himself though, considering it’s one of his best songs. Convention crashes thru the stained glass window to make way for a solemn piano that conjures The Young And The Restless. From there, the ballad builds to a rapturous anthem with guitars, thunder and an arena full of cheering fans.

As funny as it would be, this isn’t a song about masturbation. When Michael Jackson says Beat It, he’s telling some boy to scram because it’s not worth risking his life fighting those other boys. There’s one of him, too many of them and “No one wants to be defeated.” I just love the way he harmonizes that last part.

A lot of guys, perhaps the boy’s father or older brother, will criticize Michael Jackson for telling him to run like a coward, especially with rock music this kick-ass blaring in the background; Eddie Van Halen’s guitar solo alone would destroy those little punks; but the point is that he’ll live to fight another day.

The title reminds me of Valentine’s Day. That would make it a cold February night as Michael Jackson offers to warm a girl in his arms. He already has her at his place. Now he wants to “share my feelings in the heat of love’s embrace” and “show you all the passion burning in my heart today.”

Rod Temperton is to blame for those lyrics. Quincy Jones is responsible for the slinky disco groove, which is upbeat enough to dance to and sensual enough to seduce to. Michael’s trying to have sex with this girl. “Only you and I can make sweet love this way,” he confesses, “There’s no more I can say.”

If I could have a romantic relationship with any female celebrity, or just use her as a sex doll, I’d probably pick Tinashe. I could nitpick her height down a few inches; I generally prefer short girls; but damn. With that face, which is adorable even without makeup, body and blanched almond skin color, she’s about as close to my ideal girl as I’ve seen.

What’s dangerous, at least to the career of Michael Jackson, was his decision to leave producer Quincy Jones after three hit albums. This one isn’t trimmed as tight as it probably would’ve been if he were still around; it goes for 77 minutes; but the way that time is utilized made it a risk worth taking. The set immerses itself in New Jack Swing; gritty dance grooves produced by Teddy Riley; before dwindling the tempo down for an eclectic assortment of ballads.

Gone Too Soon matches poetic similes with soaring orchestration. It’s a beautiful lament. But before you can shed a tear, the music fades to the thumping pulse of a nightclub. It’s not the place that’s Dangerous. It’s a girl. She’s vindictive, conniving, sexy and divine, all at once. Could it be the return of Dirty Diana? Perhaps. But this album is not only better than Bad, it is arguably the best Michael Jackson album thus far and one of the two best albums I’ve ever heard.

There is Thriller, of course, and that’s where the internal arguments begin. Song for song, with a loaded gun to my head, I’d be inclined to say Thriller is better. It certainly has a more ageless soundscape, which does wonders for the classicity of its songs. Dangerous dates itself with overactive sound effects and unnecessary guest rappers. But the essence of these songs are just as incredible and Michael Jackson’s signature style is even more magnificent.

Unlike most singers, he doesn’t simply sing. He often takes on a riled staccato delivery that almost sounds like melodic rap. He snaps, grunts, hiccups, hees and hoos like no one else. Even when the ad-libs don’t match the words of the song, as during the peak of Will You Be There, you’re too enthralled to care. Can’t Let Her Get Away falters during its second half, but it’s a minor fault. This album is a masterpiece. Michael Jackson doesn’t need Quincy Jones anymore.

You don’t have to be a skier to imagine how scary it would be to get stuck on a lift, in the bitter cold, for almost a week. That’s the dilemma the three protagonists in this Stephen King styled story face. It’s a girlfriend-boyfriend couple, Parker and Dan, along with Dan’s third wheel best friend. Their decision to ride the lift one last time, despite the resort closing early due to an on-coming snow storm, becomes their doom.

You’d think they’d use their hats and hoods to protect their faces from the wind. You’d think the owners of a public ski resort would’ve long ago done something about their killer wolf infestation. Those are two major plausibility faults in a story that’s otherwise terrifically realistic. The tension heads high about a quarter of the way in and only gives way to moments of desolation. The death scene near the middle is especially poignant.

Though the spooky soundscape; a thumping in the floor, a creep behind the door; suggests otherwise, this isn’t just a song about ghosts. The term seems to be a metaphor for something deeper, something real. “Who gave you the right to shake my family tree,” the controversial King Of Pop asks rhetorically, “Tell me; are you the ghost of jealousy?” He’s apparently addressing his many detractors, but the point is nearly lost in the groove.

The beat, produced by Teddy Riley, is as cold as the concept, and the bridge conjures 1970s funk, but it’s the aforementioned chorus; not the words themselves, but their harmonic melodies; that haunts. It’s a majestic masterpiece; one of the best I’ve heard, in my life, from Michael Jackson or anyone else. There’s just something (special) about the way it’s layered that, at the right moment, can literally send chills down your spine.

This grocery store version of White Castle cheeseburgers; the best tasting fast-food burgers I ever had; doesn’t quite match-up to a fresh batch from the restaurant, but it’s not far behind. The trick is to let the sliders, kept frozen, thaw in the refrigerator before “use” as the back of the box instructs. That way they have a chance to cook (heat-up) thoroughly when you zap them in the microwave oven or, if you’re really feeling yourself, steam them on the stove. Add crinkled pickle slices for maximum deliciousness.